Letters
by Simon920
Summary: The boys write one another letters. Of course it's never that easy. BJ.


Title: Letters

Author: Simon

Pairing: B/J

Rating: PG-13

Summary: ships in the night

Warnings: none

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Moonshadow Tribe and ATP

Feedback: Hell, yes. Blame me.

**Letters**

You'll probably never see this. I know that already and I'm only on the first paragraph. It's almost eleven at night and I've been here since eight this morning. I should have gone home by now but there's no real reason because I know that I have to be back here by seven tomorrow. I have clean clothes here and you're on the West Coast. I might as well stay. The couch, the one you laughed at when you saw the bill, the one that converts to a bed is comfortable enough for a night or two, not just for nooners.

Kinnetics—you named it and it seems to be doing well, at least so far. If we built it, they would come. And they have. Brown Athletics is here and Eyeconics, I landed Pfizer Drugs through that HIV campaign. The money is starting to roll in and I found out today that the HIV ads are up for a National Clio.

I know you know that this was what I wanted—my own agency, working for myself and being rich. Well, OK, it's not really the money, though that's nice—it's being able to tell people to fuck off, to have the freedom to do what I want, to walk away if I decide that's what I want. It isn't—walking away, I mean, but I could.

In theory.

In practice what it means is that there are fifty people whose weekly paychecks depend on me, week in and week out. There's the need to be sure that we're generating enough cash flow to cover those checks and all the others that have to go out and…fuck it. I'm already going off on a tangent.

I'm writing this down because I don't want to forget. I know that sounds pretty fucking lesbianic, but it's true. I want to remember this week. I want to let you know, even if you never see this, that it was important to me.

I just had this flash that this will be one of those documents that some future archeologist will excavate in a thousand years and wonder just who the fuck I was writing this fucking ode to—then they'll shake their heads because I'm not going to tell them.

You know who you are. You'll never fucking see this, but you know who you are and you know how things are between us right now without having to read this. I guess I just need to write it down to make it real or some shit like that.

Remember Sam Goldwyn? Of course you don't. He's the one who said a verbal contract is worth the paper it's written on.

OK, we don't have a contract, verbal or otherwise, but that doesn't mean dick as far as I'm concerned. We've turned a fucking corner and we both know it.

We're an 'us' and I sure as shit never thought that would ever happen in this lifetime. I know it probably won't last and I'm almost OK with that, too because right now God's in His Heaven and all's right with the world.

And how often can you say that?

If you call me from LA or e-mail me with the bad news I'll deal with it, just like I know you would do the same if I did that to you—though we both know that's a long shot right now. Maybe in six months or a year, sure, but not right now.

Well, it's more likely that you'll be making that call at some point. I know that, and that's okay, too.

You'll wake up some day, probably next to some hot piece of ass and wonder why the hell you should go back to the old fart—excuse me, geezer, as you so tactfully call me—and you'll realize there's no real reason and you'll just leave. Or not come back.

Whatever.

I know that.

But until then I'll cherish what we do have.

I know you wouldn't believe that. No one would believe that the Big Bad would use a word like that but words are my business and I use the ones that fit.

That's how it is. It may not always be like this, but for now, it's as fucking good as it gets. At least for me.

* * *

E-mails suck. I know. But it's late and I wanted to send you this, so bear with me, all right? Just read this, okay?

I was at a big party Hollywood tonight. Big stars, lot's of chi-chi food, everyone dressed just oh so casually perfectly throwaway chic…and me.

It was a kick for a while, all these people schmoozing up to me, trying to kiss my ass—figuratively speaking and all I kept thinking was about the comments and the expressions you'd have if you were here.

You'd punch a hole in them so fast it would make their heads spin.

And you'd make me laugh while you did it.

I miss you.

We'd laugh about the bullshit then we'd go back to Brett's guesthouse and you'd screw me into the mattress till morning.

Did I mention that I miss you?

There are a lot of people here, and some of them are even nice and not complete jackasses, but I'm doing that lonely in a crowd thing and it sucks.

I was going to call you when I got back to Brett's, but it was like two in the morning and didn't want to wake you up. My mother taught me that; you never call someone either before nine in the morning or after nine at night. It's rude. It was drilled into me and I still have a problem with it. You're not the only one with mother issues, you know.

I wanted to, though. In fact I want to talk to you now, but you're probably at work in some meeting and I know how you hate to be interrupted when you're trying to get things done.

Are you impressed at how considerate I am? I hope so—you should be. A year ago I would have just picked up the phone and screw the consequences but not now. I guess that may mean that I'm growing up or something.

Okay, maybe little, anyway. I still say I'm the most mature person you know, though and none of your bullshit. We both know it's true—well, at least most of the time.

So, here's the deal; I'm going back to Pittsburgh the day after tomorrow, on Thursday, and should be able to stay for at least two weeks this time. Brett said something about a short delay while he and some of the money guys hash out the details and then he has to go to London for that premier—anyway. I'll be around and I thought that maybe, if it's all right with you I'll move some of my things over to the loft.

I know. It's stupid to do it now since I have to be out here pretty much for the next six months or so, but I'd really like to do it, if it's all right with you. I'd sort of like to make the statement and I like the idea of knowing that my stuff is with you even if I'm not right now.

Jesus, does that sound lesbianic or what?

You know what? Fuck it. I don't care.

I want my drawers in your drawers and I want you to have to figure out how to fit all my shit into your space. I like being able to know that I have a place to come back to instead of just having a place to crash and, most of all, I like knowing that when I get there you'll be waiting for me even though I know you'd cut off your other ball before you'd admit that.

Is that all right with you? Does the offer still stand?

You can call me—when you get this call me, okay? I have a meeting this morning with the costumer and later with the special effects guys—did I tell you that Lucas' company, that Industrial Light and Magic is signed to do the FX? God! I am so completely psyched about this! I love you. You know that and I know you'll roll your eyes when you read that line, but it's true. I do and sometimes I think we might do the commitment thing. No, not like Michael and Ben did with the rings and everything, but in our own way. I'd want my Mom there and Debbie would kill us if she wasn't there, and the guys, too. Daphne. I might even ask my Dad but he wouldn't show up.

I wish he would, but he wouldn't. I guess you wouldn't want your family, either, but it could still be awesome.

But screw it—call me when you get this and let me know if the offer is still good. You'll meet me at the airport? I can take a cab if you're too busy.

Call me, okay?

Shit—I just read this over and I realized I sound like a complete pussy—forget this. Screw it. I just going to

(the message was deleted)

2/18/05


End file.
